


The Persistence of Memory

by MissMaudlin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurts So Good, I Blame Tumblr, Multi, Season 2 Redux, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny visibly stiffened. Ichabod rose and approached his fellow Witness, feeling a dread deep in his bones. He suddenly felt centuries old: beaten and heavy and hopeless. “Lieutenant, do you remember what you taught me, what we used to recognize each other in that place?” He gently pushed out a fist towards her, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that this wasn’t what he thought it was, that Abbie would smile at the memory of that time, that time before all of this.</p><p>Abbie just stared at the fist, looked back to Jenny, and then looked up at Ichabod. Her voice—composed, yet still tinged with hoarseness—seemed to float to his ears from far away.</p><p>“Who are you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ichabod had taken to chopping wood in the middle of the night: by the light of several lanterns, he chopped until his arms trembled, until sweat dripped down his face and his chest, until his body shivered from the cold. He couldn’t stay inside when it was dark. It brought everything back: the darkness, the thin air, the feeling of a great mass sitting on his chest until he could barely breathe. So he chopped wood until he collapsed into a nervous sleep on the living room couch, hoping against hope that that night, the nightmares would stay away.

Ichabod couldn’t sleep this night—didn’t want to sleep, because then he remembered everything, and was buried over and over by Henry, no, Jeremy, _his son_ —and then when he awoke, he remembered Abbie had stayed in Purgatory to free Katrina. And now Katrina was the Horseman’s. But Abbie, his fellow Witness, his compatriot, his _friend_ —he saw her face as he chanted those words and left her behind: brave but with terror breaking through the edges. As he’d stepped into that portal, he’d wanted to take her hand and run. Find another way to free Katrina. Anything but this.

But he’d left her there and look where they were now? With two Horsemen risen, the Witnesses separated, and his wife gone, again. And all because of his foolish belief that he could stop War by sacrificing Abbie. Oh, it had been her choice, but he realized that she’d also done it out of self-preservation. Chose to stay—chose to surrender her soul—before he had a chance to.

Ichabod raised the axe and swung it so hard the two pieces of wood careened in opposite directions across the yard.

It was on this night, after he’d chopped a pile so high that he reckoned he wouldn’t even manage to use all the wood in a year, that he heard it. A crash in the woods, and then silence, but then a faint moaning. He stilled, listening. This wasn’t the sound of an animal; the quality of sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck because he knew it was human. He ran back into the cabin, grabbed the firearm Abbie had procured for him (one, that he knew now, had many shots) and grabbed a lantern.

Ichabod had learned as a child how to track in the woods, and how to track silently. He did so now, his footfalls hushed against the fallen leaves. He listened, and heard that moan again. Shivering from his damp shirt and the sound, he followed it until he came upon a clearing. The trees fanned out into a neat circle, almost like the place were sacred. He could imagine this as a hill upon which fairies lived like the stories he heard back in England.

Raising his lantern, Ichabod looked and saw a figure by the tree line. Moving toward it slowly, he realized it was a woman. And when he got closer, he saw the unmistakable dark hair of his fellow Witness.

“My God, Abbie!” Ichabod raced to her and turned her over, and she moaned again. Her face was cut, her jeans and turtleneck both bloodied and muddied. But she was alive. And she was free. But how?

“Abbie, Lieutenant, can you hear me?” Her eyes fluttered open a moment, but there was no recognition to be had. His chest constricted. Scooping her up into his arms, the lantern dangling from his arm, he carried her back to Corbin’s cabin. Her head lolled against his arm like a doll, her breathing shallow. Ichabod ran.

He tossed the lantern on the ground before entering the cabin. Placing Abbie gently on the couch before the fire, he took off her boots and checked her for injuries. Besides cuts and bruises, nothing seemed broken. He wrapped her in blankets, chafing her skin to warm her extremities. Her breathing improved and the blue tinge to her skin faded away, but still she didn’t awaken.

Ichabod picked up the smart phone—Abbie’s smart phone that he’d had on his person upon leaving Purgatory, the useful bit of technology that alerted someone to his location in that coffin and saved his life—and scrolled through the recent calls. He punched the entry, cursing at his trembling hands, and cursing more when the call rang and rang. Finally, after what felt like hours, she picked up.

“Why the fuck are you calling me at…2:53 AM?”

“Miss Jenny, I apologize, but you must come now. Your sister: I’ve found her.”

***

Ichabod heard Jenny’s car screech to a stop outside the cabin about 20 minutes later. The drive from Abbie’s home usually took closer to 35 minutes, he knew, so God only knew how quickly Miss Jenny had driven to get there. The car door slammed shut and then Jenny was in the cabin, stalking towards him.

“Where is she?”

She hadn’t even changed from her nightwear, Ichabod noticed: her pajamas—as Abbie had called them—covered in a print of bells and snowmen. Her footwear, however, was its usual black boots. A bandage still covered the right side of her head from her car accident. But her face, Ichabod realized, was so resolute, so hard, that he stopped himself from taking a step back.

“She’s there—” Ichabod pointed to the couch. Jenny rushed over, her head bent towards her sister.

“Abbie, Abbie,” Jenny cajoled as she rubbed her sister’s arm. Looking up at Ichabod, she asked, “How?”

“I found her in the woods. Beyond that, I haven’t the faintest idea how she escaped from Purgatory.” Ichabod sighed. “She hasn’t awakened, but I could find no evidence of injury on her person.” Staring down at the pair, he added, "Should we take her to hospital?"

Jenny didn't reply at first. "You said you couldn't find anything wrong with her, right?"

"That is correct."

"Then I'd rather her stay here. Save us from all of the questions they'd ask." Jenny huffed out a shaky laugh. "What would we say? 'Yes, we found her in the woods because she'd been trapped in Purgatory.' Yeah, no."

Jenny raised Abbie’s hand to her mouth and kissed her fingers: Ichabod could see now that Jenny was shaking, her entire body reacting to the situation. Holding Abbie’s hand like a lifeline, he saw the younger Mills sister begin to cry: silently, but with such an onslaught of emotion and pain and relief that Ichabod stepped away, allowing Jenny her privacy. Like in the archives room when the two sisters finally came together, he turned away because he had no right to intrude.

And, if were to be honest with himself, he also needed time to compose himself, for his own tears ran unchecked down his face. He entered the bedroom, closed the door, and wept.

 

***

Dawn crept over the horizon when Jenny shook him awake. Ichabod had fallen into a fitful sleep in the chair across from where Abbie slept and where Jenny kept vigil. Shaking off the vestiges of sleep, he looked up at Jenny. “She’s awake,” Jenny said softly.

Ichabod stood up with a start but then couldn’t move. Abbie was turned on her side, her face carefully blank. Jenny turned back to her sister and sat at her side. Slowly sitting up, Abbie gazed at the pair silently before she spoke.

Addressing Jenny, Abbie asked, “Where am I?” Her voice was hoarse, like she had been screaming. Ichabod sat back down, the hairs on the back of his neck lifting again in forewarning.

Jenny leaned towards Abbie. “You’re in Corbin’s cabin, Abbie. Remember?”

“Corbin doesn’t have a cabin,” Abbie replied. She stared at Jenny then, her eyebrows furrowing together. “And why are you here? You should be at Tarrytown.” Abbie’s eyes widened. “My God, did you escape?” Suddenly trying to free herself from all the blankets, Abbie tried to get up but collapsed soon after, breathing heavily. “The cops are looking for you, aren’t they? Is that why we’re here?” Her words reminded Ichabod of when Abbie had first spoken of her younger sister: harsh yet pained. But that had been months ago.

Jenny just shook her head, glanced at Ichabod, and then back to her sister. “I’ve been out of Tarrytown for weeks now. _You_ got me out, remember?”

Abbie rubbed her temples. “No, _I don’t remember_. What the hell are you talking about?”

Ichabod felt his chest tighten until he couldn’t breathe, like he’d been buried again in that coffin and left to slowly suffocate. Abbie’s face was one of fear and anger, her posture stiff and her hands gripping the blanket tightly to her. This wasn’t the Abbie he’d left behind in Purgatory. This was…

“Abbie, do you remember what happened? Do you remember anything?” Jenny had sat back from her sister, no longer touching, just watching.

Abbie thought a moment, her fingers bunching and un-bunching the flannel material of the blanket. “The last thing I can remember is sitting with Corbin, eating apple pie a la mode like we always do, the night before I was going to leave for Quantico.” Abbie looked up. “Where is Corbin?”

Jenny visibly stiffened. Ichabod rose and approached his fellow Witness, feeling a dread deep in his bones. He suddenly felt centuries old: beaten and heavy and hopeless. “Lieutenant, do you remember what you taught me, what we used to recognize each other in that place?” He gently pushed out a fist towards her, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that this wasn’t what he thought it was, that Abbie would smile at the memory of that time, that time before all of this.

Abbie just stared at the fist, looked back to Jenny, and then looked up at Ichabod. Her voice—composed, yet still tinged with hoarseness—seemed to float to his ears from far away.

“Who are you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks muchly to lola-inslacks on Tumblr for the idea. Hopefully it passes muster. Oh, the delicious angst!
> 
> Also shamelessly stole the title from the Dali painting.


	2. Chapter 2

Being buried alive was, Ichabod reflected, an apt time to ponder all of your faults.

He’d stopped struggling hours ago. The vines were too tightly wound around his body, and he realized he expended precious energy by fighting. So he forced himself to calm, to breathe, to allow his racing heart to slow down. And he thought.

Ichabod realized that Abbie’s words that night in the archive room had proven his downfall, and the downfall of her, as well. _That’s your arrogance talking_ , she’d accused him after he’d believed himself at fault for Abraham’s decisions. He’d been shocked at the assertion. He’d never thought himself arrogant, although perhaps a bit prideful in his abilities. But he’d convinced himself he had the power to influence not only Abraham, but prophecy itself.

Yes, _arrogant_ remained an appropriate description for him. Abbie had been, from the beginning, stunningly astute—not only in regards to him, but most everyone around her.

He half-laughed, half-sobbed as he remembered Abbie’s face as he’d left her in Purgatory. Darkness was closing in, and soon he’d either die of suffocation or shock. Or dehydration. Ichabod knew he deserved nothing less: he’d lied to Abbie about the map, he’d decided to free Katrina from Purgatory without thinking of another solution, and worst of all, he’d left Abbie there. She’d made the decision, which, oddly enough, was worst of all. She’d made the decision because she hadn’t trusted that he wouldn’t give her soul over to Moloch in the end. So she’d beaten him to it. His fellow Witness and friend had lost her trust in him. Had she ever been able to trust him, so blind had he been in pursuit of his wife’s freedom?

When she’d said there was no other way—so brave, was his Lieutenant—he hadn’t wanted to believe her. But he knew Abbie well enough now to know she wouldn’t budge. So he’d allowed her to stay, and it was only now that he knew he’d been such a damn fool. He’d been a fool to allow himself to sacrifice others for Katrina: he’d been blind. So blind. He’d wanted to save his wife over wanting to save the world. He’d chosen Katrina, he admitted to himself as he bit his lip to keep from crying out, over wanting to keep Abbie safe.

Katrina, his beloved, his wife, who was now in the hands of the Horseman. She had been, ironically, safer in Purgatory.

Ichabod knew when he was defeated. And he’d done it to himself. And now, Abbie was trapped, Katrina was in danger, and Ichabod was going to die here, in the ground, buried by his son, and all he could do was wait for death to take him.

***

Silence fell after Abbie’s question. _Who are you?_

Ichabod felt the vines in that coffin wind around him again, enclosing him, trapping him, and stealing his breath. He couldn’t reply. Abbie had no memory of him—of their meeting, of their trials, of their confidences, of their laughter, of their learning each other’s quirks while trying to save the world—nothing.

An inexplicable memory came to him: of her stopping at a Starbucks months ago, dragging him inside, and making him experience coffee a la America.

“Go on, choose something,” she’d said.

He’d eyed the board overhead with a disdainful gaze. “How am I to choose something when I have no notion what anything means? ‘Frapp-u-cci-no?’ What in God’s green earth is that?”

“It’s like a milkshake, with coffee. I explained milkshakes to you, remember? Ice cream and milk and candy of some sort all blended together?” Abbie had raised her brows at him. “Don’t you have a photographic memory?” 

Ichabod had smiled at Abbie’s tone, a tone rather reserved for young children: patient yet condescending. “Yes, Lieutenant, I recall milkshakes. Yet I am not entirely certain one mixed with coffee can be palatable.” He’d shuddered. “You may order what you think is best.” 

They had reached the front of the line; Abbie’d smiled at the pimply cashier, who’d been staring at Ichabod in rapt fascination. “A strawberries and cream frap for him,” Abbie had said to the teenage girl, “and an Americano with two extra shots for me.”

She wouldn’t remember that, though. She wouldn’t remember that he’d perversely enjoyed that drink more than he’d cared to admit, and always ordered it when they ventured into a Starbucks. Whatever had happened in Purgatory, Abbie’s memories had stayed there.

“Abbie,” Ichabod whispered. He couldn’t even speak beyond saying her name, a liberty he’d only allowed himself a handful of times. A man did not address a woman unrelated to himself by her Christian name. But with Miss Mills—Abbie—he felt himself shedding propriety like a waistcoat, an intimacy that he had enjoyed far more than he cared to admit.

Jenny looked from her sister to Ichabod and back again before springing into action. Standing, she took her sister by the wrist, urging her to stand. “I’m taking her home,” Jenny said by way of explanation, her voice clipped. Ichabod could hear that it trembled ever so slightly.

“Jenny, what the hell?” Abbie stared at her sister like she’d never seen her before. “What is going on?” She looked at Ichabod. “And who is this guy? Your boyfriend?” Abbie eyed Ichabod, now noticing his odd attire. “And why is he dressed like Mr. Darcy?”

More gently, Jenny wrapped her sister in the blanket. “I’ll explain everything once we get home, okay? I mean, once I drive you to your place. Just trust me.” When Abbie didn’t move, Jenny added in a whisper, “Please, Abbie.”

Realizing her sister was in earnest, Abbie clutched the blanket around her shoulders. “All right, but if you’re in trouble, you’ll tell me, right?” Abbie—even having been trapped in Purgatory, her hair a rat’s nest, her face pale—exuded authority. “If you’ve run away from Tarrytown, I need to know. I can only help you if you tell me what’s going on.”

Jenny nodded. “I know. Let’s go.”

As the pair left, Ichabod felt himself unable to move. What could he say, or do? Did he sit Abbie down and explain to her everything they’d gone through? She’d think him utterly mad. He half-wondered if he’d dreamt everything. If he weren’t actually the one who was mad.

But as he heard Jenny’s truck—a new truck, he knew, since her other truck had been destroyed—his legs started moving again and he rushed outside. “Miss Jenny! Wait!”

They both glanced at him through the passenger window: Abbie’s gaze one of wary curiosity, Jenny’s one of naked antipathy. He stopped short. Jenny eyed him a moment longer before turning to her sister, speaking to her briefly. She turned off the truck’s engine and hopped out the side. She then took him by the arm and forced him back inside.

Shutting the door, Jenny asked, her words edged with brilliant anger, “What do you want?”

Ichabod raised a brow at Jenny’s clasp on his arm. She backed off a step, releasing him, but her face didn’t soften. In fact, he imagined her anger increased.

Jenny, he knew, had never trusted him. He’d sealed this distrust when, sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed, he’d told her Abbie had stayed behind in Purgatory. And was trapped there for the foreseeable future. Jenny’s face had shuddered, closed, her gaze hard, her mouth turned down. She’d been pale and drawn, bandages on her face and arms and torso. It had been a miracle that she’d escaped without more serious injuries, Ichabod knew. Then, her clenched fist had been the only real sign of her anger. But all she’d said was, “How do we get her out?”

They’d made an awkward, bristling pair these past days of working towards freeing Abbie while also searching for Katrina: spending hours upon hours in the archive room, reading through Corbin's files and ancient tomes and religious texts and letters and God knew what else. They’d combed the woods, looking for clues for the Horseman’s whereabouts, they’d driven miles and miles, searching for anything, anyone. How a man with no head had managed to disappear with a witch so neatly was beyond them. But Ichabod knew that there was no way to free Abbie without placing Katrina back in Purgatory—one woman for the other. A bitter bargain, he knew. 

And Jenny rarely spoke to him, unless forced to. Her demeanor had been icy, her words clipped, but she’d been as focused as he as they felt the world around them burning and falling apart—Irving in jail, Andy dead, Luke MIA, and SHPD in shambles, with two Horsemen free and gaining power. But now Abbie was free.

“Miss Jenny, I think something may have happened in Purgatory.”

“Oh, you fucking think?” Jenny replied, her voice a low hiss. “Moloch stole her memories, Crane, that much is obvious.”

Ichabod rubbed his eyes and sighed, suddenly exhausted. “She may have made a bargain, perhaps to free herself. We have to tell her all that’s happened. We need her.” Jenny began pulling at the pocket of her hoodie in silence, clearly agitated. “Let me come with you—”

Jenny burst forward, took him by his shirtfront and slammed him against the wall. Ichabod knew, suddenly, that this woman could do him serious violence. Her head came beneath his chin—he could have overpowered her easily—but he stayed still. Jenny’s face contained such rage—her pupils dilated, her nostrils flared, her teeth bared—that he didn’t dare press her.

“Listen here, you piece of shit,” she said in a low voice, her body trembling. “Don’t come near my sister. Don’t talk to her. Don’t call her. You say you need her, but you left her—you fucking left her!—in that place.” Jenny shook him one last time before releasing him. “If she asks for you to come, you can. But not before then. Go search for your witch wife, but if you come near my sister without her permission, I’ll fucking shoot you where you stand.”

And with that, Jenny turned and stalked outside.

Ichabod remained in that spot, motionless, even after Jenny drove off in a cloud of dust. He knew she was right. He’d betrayed not only Abbie but Jenny as well. And now, Abbie remembered nothing about him or their mission.

Pulling out a kitchen chair, he sank down into it and laid his head in hands, unmoving until the sun began to sink below the horizon.

***

The phone in his pocket had saved him. Abbie’s phone, to be precise. It vibrated and squawked and vibrated again. Reaching behind him, Ichabod grunted, trying to free the device while entangled in vines. Finally, he pulled it free and craned his neck towards it, trying to read the screen. Missed calls from Luke, from other police department friends, from names he didn’t recognize. He fumbled minutes more, swearing all the while, before he was able to call someone.

“My God, Abbie, where are you?” Morales’s voice echoed in the coffin.

Ichabod wanted to laugh at the irony. Morales, of all people. Instead he replied, his voice muffled and croaky, “‘Tis Crane. Ichabod Crane. And I am in need of your assistance, Detective Morales. Badly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos and I'm sorry for the delay! I should warn you that updates will be kind of sporadic since I'm in school, but I'll try my best to update at least every 2 weeks. Hopefully.


	3. Chapter 3

Abbie felt like she was moving through water: everything filmy and viscous, like someone had pushed her head under a lake and now she was seeing everything underwater. Jenny didn’t say much as she drove her back to her house—her house, with newly painted shutters, which she couldn’t remember ever doing—and then she was sitting on her couch with a mug of hot tea and staring at its contents. Because it was easier than looking at her sister.

Her sister—her _sister_ —present, in her house, moving about her kitchen like she’d lived here for years, her sister who she hadn’t seen in years and who should be in Tarrytown Psychiatric. But no, for whatever reason, she was here instead and now she sat on the couch with her drinking her own cup of tea like they were little girls again. Abbie set her mug on the coffee table, carefully placing it on one of the coasters. She wasn’t about to ruin her oak table out of sheer distraction.

“Jenny, you can tell me,” Abbie began, her voice still hoarse but gaining strength, “are you in trouble?” When Jenny looked away, setting her own mug on the coffee table, Abbie pressed on. “Did you escape from Tarrytown? Are they looking for you now? Jenny, you have to tell me—"

Jenny’s mouth trembled a moment—Abbie found this astonishing, as her sister hadn’t cried since they were children—before she replied, “No, Abbie. No one’s looking for me.” She laughed a little, a bitter, low laugh. “At least not who you think would be looking for me.”

Abbie found herself getting agitated, her own hands shaking slightly, the watery feeling in her brain slowly melding away to reveal the reality around her. If she thought too hard about what was happening, she was afraid she’d break. Just like Mama, who talked about demons coming after them. Gripping the fabric of her jeans, Abbie forced her thoughts to calm, forced herself to avoid whatever trajectory they wanted to follow. She couldn’t break down now. “Then how are you here? And who was that guy?”

Jenny picked up Abbie’s mug and wrapped Abbie’s hand around it. “Just drink your tea. You need to get some sleep first, there’s too much to tell you—"

Abbie held up a hand. “Just tell me one thing: did you escape from Tarrytown?”

“No,” Jenny replied slowly. “I got out legally.” When Abbie raised an eyebrow, Jenny added, “I swear! Completely by the books.”

“Then why—"

“Please, Abbie.” Abbie had never seen her sister like this: pleading with her, her eyes so earnest. Not since she’d begged her to tell the truth about the four white trees all those years ago. “Please, just trust me. This one time. I’ll tell you everything in the morning.” And here Jenny’s voice broke, and Abbie felt tears pooling in her own eyes as her sister said, “I promise you.”

Abbie nodded, sipping her tea, forcing the tears to abate. She forced her mind to clear, to ignore the new painting on her wall, the new rug under her feet, the items scattered across her countertops that she’d never known existed. The smell of pine and leather that seemed to flit across her senses with every breath. Why her hair was longer than she’d remember, how she’d gotten the cut on her arm. All of it. Everything. But she just swallowed her tea, slowly, until it was lukewarm and then she stood, her head swimming. “I’m going to bed. We’ll talk in the morning, right?”

Jenny nodded and looked like she was going to help her to her room, but Abbie turned before Jenny stood. Walking to her bedroom, she stripped off her jeans and shirt and boots and jacket and then just sat on her bed, the dim light of the street lamps filtering in through her window. She gazed at the mirror in her bedroom, staring at herself, wondering why she looked so different when she knew that, physically, she was unchanged. Still Abbie in the essentials. But her eyes looked darker, she thought, and her mouth tighter. Her skin paler, perhaps. Licking her lips, Abbie stood and turned on the lamp on her bedside table.

It was there that she noticed various wooden figurines: a horse, a bird. Picking one up, she fingered one of the delicate items, noting that the workmanship seemed exquisite—even coming from her, who knew little about such things. She set down the horse before picking up the bird, which looked like a raven of some sort. The wings were delineated with individual feathers, and she stroked the lines of the wood with her finger, wondering where the figurines came from, and who could’ve made them.

And then she knew: the man in the cabin.

The man in the cabin—what had Jenny called him? Crane?—in his odd clothing and proper English accent. She knew with a clarity that startled her that he’d made these figurines, had made them for _her_ , but she couldn’t remember him giving them to her. Couldn't remember when he’d set them into her open palms, maybe smiling, maybe wondering how she’d react. But now all she could see were those gray-blue eyes, looking at her like they’d known each other for eternity, had seen things together that only they had shared, like he’d known her intimately.

But Abbie couldn’t remember any of that. She quickly stripped off her dirty bra and panties, throwing them into the hamper before putting on her usual sleepwear. Crawling under her covers—they, at least, were familiar—she flipped off the lamp and curled in on herself, hugging her pillow close, feeling the tears fall down her cheeks as she wept for something she couldn’t even remember.

*

Ichabod didn’t usually overindulge in drink. It deadened the senses, made him say absurd things. But tonight: he needed something. He needed glasses upon glasses of rum and, by God, he was going to drink himself into oblivion, if only to get the memory of Abbie’s not knowing him out of his brain.

Shame, then, that even under the influence of alcohol, his eidetic memory remained intact.

He drank, though, until he stumbled about the cabin, making grand claims about nonsensical things, declaring his eternal loyalty to General George Washington while denouncing the nonsense of his erstwhile tutor Benjamin Franklin. He flung himself onto furniture and sloshed alcohol all over himself, but he laughed uproariously each time. Yes, he was truly and completely foxed.

Other moments, he felt tears course down his face as he thought about Abbie, about how she didn’t know him and probably never would. How she’d laughed at him when she’d given him that heinous concoction called Red Bull, how she’d hugged him close after the Sin Eater—Henry, _Jeremy—_ saved him from killing himself, the look in her eyes as he left her in Purgatory.

Yes, this was perhaps his punishment: Abbie’s lost memories meant that he could never make amends. She had the freedom of forgetting. He, though, had the burden of remembering without ever making it right.

Ichabod didn’t know when he finally fell asleep, or collapsed, or both. But he awoke to a splitting headache, groaning, an empty snifter in his hand. He stumbled over the mostly empty bottle of rum at his feet in his quest to get to the bathroom before he lost the contents of his stomach on the rug. He may be hopelessly hung over, but he wouldn’t sully himself by vomiting on Corbin’s furnishings.

After losing his battle with his stomach and showering, Ichabod walked into the bedroom, only to be met with the visage of his wife in the bedroom mirror.

“Katrina!” Running to the mirror, he gripped its sides, pressing his face close to the glass. “My love, how are you? And how are you—"

Katrina shushed him. “There isn’t much time.” Glancing behind her, Katrina continued, her voice whisper soft, “I have heard talk of the rise of the third Horseman. Henry—" Katrina grimaced, “No, Jeremy, our son, works with Abraham to cast a spell, to ascertain who will become the third Horseman. But they need an artifact, an amulet, to bring it about.”

Ichabod gripped the sides of the mirror harder, shaking it, as if he could gain the answers by sheer physical will. “Which amulet, Katrina, my love, do you know where it is?”

Katrina shook her head, her red hair dancing across her shoulders. Her face was pale, drawn, her mouth tight, but she seemed well. Well enough in captivity, Ichabod thought bitterly. “I do not, but I do know who may: a witch, one of my coven, who I have reason to believe still lives. Her name is—" And here a sound like a door opening made Katrina turn, and before Ichabod could ask her the name of this witch, Katrina had disappeared.

Ichabod stared at the glass for moments longer, his hands aching from gripping the wood, restraining himself from taking it and tossing it across the room until it shattered. Instead, he bent his head and breathed, wondering how he could find an amulet from a possibly dead witch without Abbie’s help.

Standing up, he dressed himself quickly before grabbing his phone. Typing in his message, he smiled grimly upon reading the reply. And then he sat outside the cabin, waiting for Morales to come get him to take him to the police station.

*

_You may have escaped me this time, Witness, but you will not escape your final fate._

The words whispered across Abbie’s consciousness, filling her with cold. All she could feel was cold. Gazing up, she saw a great white beast reaching toward her, his claws outstretched, his face blurry, but she knew instinctively it was horrific. And all she could do was listen, her body immobile, the cold breath of this beast upon her face and filling her body with icy shards. Birds flew overhead, cawing, their voices stark and terrifying.

_You escaped, but you did not escape intact. And what good is a Witness who doesn’t know she’s a Witness? Ah, Abbie, you will be mine, and on that day I will rejoice as your blood covers my hands and your bones are scattered across my land, only to be picked apart by the carrion birds._

The beast took her chin in his hand, lifting her upward, and Abbie could only close her eyes. She trembled so hard her teeth knocked together, and she smelled blood. Blood in the air and suddenly she knew she was covered in it, and it was hers, it had to be hers—

Abbie awoke with a gasp, tangled in her sheets. Light shone through her bedroom windows, but it did nothing to reassure her. She shook and shook and finally forced herself to rise from her bed, gripping her knees and taking deep breaths. _It was just a dream_ , she said over and over to herself. _A creepy-ass dream. Nothing more._

The door to her bedroom opened suddenly, and Jenny was before her, her face stark in the morning light. “Abbie, you have to come, there’s something—"

And Abbie was out the door of her bedroom, her police instincts kicking in. Picking up her gun from the table and clicking off the safety, she edged toward her front door on silent feet. Slowly, she opened the door, the gun in front, her voice echoing across her patio in firm tones, “This is the SHPD. Come out and show yourself with your hands up.”

But nothing moved, only the slight breeze through the trees. And a moment later, Abbie looked down to see a bird on her doorstep: its body broken, blood seeping into the mat, its neck clearly snapped. Jenny gasped a little as she stepped behind Abbie. Bending down, Abbie moved the bird slightly to read the message written in blood upon the wood of her porch:

YOU WILL BE MINE.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, I'm updating this? IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. I have no excuse for the delay beyond that I'm a jerk. But thanks for still reading. <3


	4. Chapter 4

Katrina sat, motionless, as Abraham trailed his fingers down her throat, across her collarbone, his movements lackadaisical, like a lover’s touch. His expression—an expression she could see, with the assistance of the heavy emerald necklace around her neck—was enraptured. She closed her eyes a moment. She wondered if her powers would ever fully return to her, or if she would remain like this: human, vulnerable, and weak.

Abraham leaned down to inhale the scent of her hair before murmuring, “You still smell like I remember, Katrina.” The sound of his voice, after so many years, raised goosebumps across her flesh.

She watched him in the mirror as he raised a lock of her hair, brushing it against his lips, before letting it fall. His hands touched the bare skin of her upper shoulders, dipping into the fabric for a moment.

As his hands drifted lower, brushing the sides of her breasts, she shrugged from his touch. “I can’t imagine that is true,” she replied with what she hoped was in a voice laced with primness, instead of fear. “As I have been trapped in Purgatory these two centuries.”

Abraham gripped her arms, his fingers digging into her, warning her. “And who sent you there? ‘Twas not I.” Spinning her to face him, his face was mere inches from hers as he said in a voice that made her quake, “It was you, and Ichabod, and that brat you carried—it was all of you who got you sent to that place as punishment for your sins. When you could’ve been safe with me—”

Abraham backed away from her, his expression now shuttered. “That is the past now, I’m afraid. You made a poor decision then, but I expect you to make a better one now.”

Katrina gripped the cushion, her hands aching, and eked out, “What decision would that be?” Her voice, she knew, was tight with her fear, and she felt ashamed of such weakness. Where was the powerful witch she knew she once was? Did Purgatory drain her completely—and irrevocably?

Moving toward her again before lifting her chin, Abraham gazed down at her. “Oh my darling, naïve, _foolish_ Katrina.” He stroked her jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. “You will be my bride, my love, and you will make this decision of your own free will.” His fingers bit into her cheek, making her cry out softly from its suddenness. “Or you will find yourself in a place one hundred times worse than Purgatory.” 

He left her, shutting the door closed and locking it, the turn of the lock’s tumbler so final that Katrina wondered if she could ever escape this place. She closed her eyes a moment, feeling her surroundings: second floor, a large oak tree outside, a starling’s nest within its branches. The room sat adjoining to another bedroom, most likely, although all she heard no movements within it, but instead only heard the heavy footsteps of Abraham walking down the stairs.

Rising, she stepped to the door, reaching toward the knob, only to gasp at the sudden, burning pain it caused her. _This has been enchanted_ , she thought. She reached outward from within her mind, gazing at the magic enclosed around the lock from her inner eye, and knew she was no match for the intricacy of the spell. At least not right now. Before she’d been trapped, made a prisoner of Moloch, where her powers were drained for his use—she would’ve been able to break the spell. But her powers were barely there, she acknowledged: just a small spark when it had once been a burning conflagration.

She sat heavily down upon the seat in front of the mirror, rubbing her forehead. Remembering how she gave up Jeremy all those years ago, thinking she was doing right—but now. Now, it had all turned to blood and terror and death. And now she was a prisoner again, a prisoner of a monster whose entire purpose was to own her, body and soul.

 _I will not be a prisoner again_ , she vowed. Gazing into the mirror, seeing her pale face, her expression tight, her eyes still filled with fear, she bit her lip until it bled. “I will be no man’s prisoner,” she whispered, and outside, she heard the scream of a rabbit before a hawk closed its talons around it, breaking its neck effortlessly.

Katrina closed her eyes and listened.

* 

Jenny had bagged the dead bird and bloodstained mat by the time Luke arrived, his face creased with worry.

“Abbs,” he said in the gentlest voice Abbie had ever heard from Luke—Luke, the guy who’d told her they should take a break upon her leaving for Quantico. Who now sat in a chair across from her and looked years older than she had ever seen him. 

“Abbs,” he repeated, taking her hand. “I heard you—that you were back. What happened?”

Abbie shook her head, an ache in her temples beginning to pound against her skull. What did she say? That she’d woken up in the forest, bloodied, bruised, and her last memory had been packing her bags for Quantico?

“I don’t know,” she said lamely. “I woke up in the forest and then Jenny was there. And this weird British guy, too.”

Luke leaned back, letting go of her hand. “Weird British guy? Do you mean Crane?”

“Do you know him?”

Opening his mouth, before shutting it, Luke glanced at Jenny as she came back inside before returning his gaze to Abbie. “Yeah, and so do you. He’s apparently an Oxford professor, who you’ve been working with—”

Jenny, hearing his words, stepped toward him, taking him by the arm as she said, “Luke, come with me.” When he resisted, she added in a steely voice, “ _Now_ ,” before taking him into a back room. “We’ll be right back, Abbie,” she called over her shoulder.

Abbie didn’t reply, but she found her anger rising: she knew they weren’t telling her something. A lot of somethings, and although Jenny had told her to be patient, she deserved to know the truth. What the fuck were they not telling her? _And how did she end up in a forest without knowing how she got there?_

Not to mention the bird and the blood and the message on her fucking doorstep—which Jenny understood immediately. Abbie, though, had merely recoiled, before watching as Jenny’s mouth thinned, her eyebrows narrowing in obvious anger, before kicking the bird corpse across the porch in a burst of emotion. “That piece of shit son of a bitch,” she muttered before going inside to grab a trash bag.

Abbie walked toward the back bedroom, determined to find out the truth, when she heard a raised voice. She paused, listening.

“She doesn’t remember anything.” That was Jenny, and Abbie realized her sister's voice was shaky, like she was near tears.

“Nothing?” Luke replied. “How in God’s name does she remember _nothing_?”

There was silence, and Abbie stepped away, thinking they were finished, before voices resumed. “You know about the weird shit going down around here. You know about the monsters, and the demons—”

Abbie recoiled. _Did Jenny just say_ monsters? Demons? What kind of alternate universe did she find herself in?

Luke cut Jenny off. “I know about them. Are you saying this has to do with Abbie?”

“It has everything to do with her,” Jenny said simply, and Abbie knew they were done speaking. Stepping lightly back into the living room, she sat down just as they opened the door, Luke’s expression grim, Jenny’s, determined.

Abbie folded her arms, hoping to hide her shaking. Demons, monsters, the four white trees, the chill of evil down her spine, waking up in the forest with no memory. And she suddenly felt like she was going to throw up, because this same thing had happened to her as a teenager, and it was happening again, and she didn’t know why.

 _This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening again._ And when she looked up at Jenny, she realized: Jenny knew. Jenny knew that she knew and they were those young girls in the woods, disoriented, terrified, Abbie begging her sister to lie while Jenny did what she thought was right—she always did that. So honest that she hurt herself. And they gazed at each other as Luke texted someone, as his phone made sounds into the silence of the room, and they knew that they were once again those two sisters: entirely alone in the world.

“It’s Crane,” Luke said, breaking the silence. “He asked that I come get him.”

The moment shattered. Abbie glanced at Luke. “He can’t drive?” Odd, that. What guy in this day and age didn’t drive? Especially in Sleepy Hollow, where the public transportation consisted of a handful of buses that ran only a few hours a day.

Luke looked heavenward. “No, he can’t.” Stuffing his phone in his back pocket, he added, “I’ll be right back.”

Abbie stood up. “I’m coming with you.” And when Jenny was about to speak, she silenced her with a look. “Crane’s the common denominator here, and I feel like he’s the one who can tell me what’s going on. Since you guys won’t.” Luke glanced at Jenny, but neither spoke. Abbie ignored them, grabbing her jacket.

“Abbs, I don’t think—”

“I don’t care what you think. I’m going.” Standing at the door, she looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

* 

When the sun rose, dawn streaking the sky orange and red, Katrina awoke. And when she awoke, she realized she was not alone.

“Hello, Mother,” the man said to her—a man older than she, his face wrinkled and his hands gnarled. His voice was soft, gentle even, cultured.

She sat up, smoothing her hair to hide her trembling. “Jeremy—no, Henry.” Her son, her dear baby, transformed into this…this man. This warlock, this monster. “Why are you here?”

Henry rose, stepping toward her. He offered her his hand, and she took it and rose. His palms smooth, the nails neatly filed. “I am a son who desires to visit his mother. Do you object?”

Katrina felt his power, his magic emanating from him, so strong that it took her breath away. His touch almost burned, his magic almost a living, breathing thing. “Certainly not,” she murmured. “How are you?”

He smiled—but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. And he still held her hand, his grip unrelenting. “My, your powers are weak. I thought Moloch had drained you, but to this extent?” Henry tsked. “What a tragedy: one of the greatest witches in history now contains only a thimbleful of power, barely more than a human woman.” And suddenly, he dropped her hand, his disgust evident. “Can you work any spell?”

Katrina stepped away from him, going to the vanity. This man was not her son—perhaps she shared his blood, but nothing beyond that. He’d ceased to be her son the moment he embraced Moloch as his father and master. “I fail to see how that is any of your business.” She began combing her hair, as if this were any other morning, preparing her toilet for the day. Gazing into the mirror—gazing into Henry’s eyes, as he'd stepped behind her—she said in a cold voice, “For you are no kin of mine." 

Henry didn’t reply for a moment, before he laughed. Laughed a coarse, rusty laugh that caused a ripple of fear to trail down Katrina’s spine. “Oh, Mother—and yes, I shall call you Mother, for you are _my_ mother—you truly are a fool.” And with a sudden movement that belied his years, Henry closed his hand around her four fingers, pushing them back, so hard that she feared at any moment he would snap bone; she bit her lip, forcing herself not to cry out as Henry spoke. “You will do as I tell you, and you will cast a mirror spell—yes, even I know you can do something as simple as that with your weakened powers—and tell Father that we seek an amulet.”

Katrina tipped her head back. “And why should I do such a thing?”

“Because,” and here Henry smiled again as he increased the pressure on her fingers, and she finally cried out, “if you don’t, I’ll snap your bones in two.”

They stared at each other. Feeling a sudden calm envelop her, Katrina whispered, her voice rough, “Go to hell.”

She screamed as he broke her index finger, and she screamed as he snapped her middle finger, the pain so overwhelming she was afraid she'd faint. The starlings in the nest outside flew away in a burst, terrified by the sound of her screams, and she focused on their small bodies as they flew into the sky. She wondered, briefly, if Abraham would save her—but he did not. No one did.

Heaving, lightheaded, Henry began to bend her ring finger. “I’ll do it,” she murmured, and she felt nausea rise in her throat. And suddenly the pain ceased, her fingers mended, and Henry dropped a lock of hair in front of her—Ichabod’s hair, she realized.

“I’m so glad, Mother, that you’ve seen reason. Be sure to give Father my love.” Henry stepped away into the shadows of the room.

And Katrina gripped the lock of hair, feeling its softness against her once broken fingers, and reached out for the warmth that was her husband's spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, did you think I'd abandoned this sucker? Nah, I was just busy. I hope now, though, to update this one and my other fic consistently over the summer. *crosses fingers*
> 
> Also, I realize there was a lot of Katrina in this chapter...but this will not be the Katrina of season 2, Katrina of the dingy corsets and stupid decisions. Yes, I realize she was victimized in this chapter, but it won't last. I PROMISE. Ultimately, I hope for this to be an entire redux of season 2 (how ambitious of me!), borrowing only a handful of elements of s2 while pretty much discarding everything else. 
> 
> We shall see how it goes.


End file.
